Hanami
by wlkwos
Summary: Tomoyo dreams on a spring day, many years after the events of the manga. One-shot for my beta, Just Subliminal.


For Just Subliminal, to celebrate To The Deep North reaching fifty reviews! Thank you for being such a wonderful beta!

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Hanami

She sits in her chair by the open window, warmed by the touch of the spring sunshine. The plum trees are in blossom; their strong sweet scent enfolds her. Each breath she draws is sharp with fragrance.

A warbler is singing near by, one long note followed by a quick bubbling trill. When it pauses, she hears another reply from further away, and then the first warbler bursts into song again. It is a sound that reminds her of her childhood and the visits to this very house. Every spring before school started, every summer as well, coming here when it grew too hot to stay in the city.

She had had her mother's old room then, upstairs, looking out across the roses to the lane and the trees beyond. In the mornings, she would lie in bed, listening to the birds singing as the early sunlight crept across the pillow; later in the day, she would sit at the piano and pick out their songs – the varied chirps and burbles of the white eye, the high notes and quick little runs of the flycatcher, the beautiful trill of the robin.

"You are so musical," her mother would say. "Sing that piece you were practicing with the choir for grandfather."

And she sang, hands clasped before her, eyes shut as she placed each note precisely. "Ah, Tomoyo," her great-grandfather would say, "you have a lovely voice."

An old refrain comes back to her as she sits by the window, and she hums quietly to herself. Her voice rises and falls, and she sways slightly as she sings, moving with the music, or perhaps moved by it, lost in memories of springs long gone … cherry-viewing parties in Tomoeda's park … the sports day that was showered with flowers … Sakura flying across the face of the moon … Sakura and Syaoran with their little son … Sakura in that last year …

The wicker chair creaks with her gentle motion, and presently she trails off, the last notes fading on the soft soughing breeze. She is so wrapped in the past she half-expects to hear Song answering her from the gardens, but there is only the warbler.

No, not only the warbler. A clear child's voice, high and sweet and pure. It is her granddaughter, somewhere out on the lawns. She listens for a moment, smiling, then calls her.

The girl comes running up the steps, her footfalls sharp on the wooden treads, and throws open the door. The outside air rushes in with her, smells of plum blossom and fresh grass. "I'm here, Grandmother," she says, breathless.

"Shall we go for a walk?"

"Oh, yes! Let me help you up!" The little hands closing on hers are warm and smooth, and as she rises from the chair, an arm goes round her waist. She leans one hand on the child's shoulders.

"Are you ready, Grandmother?"

"Quite ready."

"Be careful," the girl says as she guides her out the door. "Look out for the stairs – don't fall."

Down she goes, one step at a time, leaning on the child. That little arm has a firm, sure grip on her, steering her carefully down the stairs onto the lawn. Once on the grass, she pauses, lifting her head to the sun, feeling its warmth on her skin, drawing a long slow breath of the plum fragrance. They have been in bloom here for a fortnight – surely their flowers must be ready to fall by now. Imagine plum as late as this in the city! Were Sakura here, she could laugh and tell her she must have used Flower to make the trees bloom and bloom, but Sakura –

"Where to, Grandmother?"

She turns her head towards the rose garden, but there will be nothing there now, not even a bud. No point their going to the tennis court either – she was never very athletic in the first place, and now –

"Let's go to the flowering trees," she says.

They set off across the lawn. The turf is springy underfoot and still damp from the night's dew, and there is the smell of wet earth, a dark, rich scent. It is like the bass line of a musical score, Tomoyo thinks, unobtrusive but present, a counterpoint to the achingly sweet plum and the grass and – is that peach? Yes, she is almost certain that it is.

The breeze plays through the trees so that the whippy young branches tap and rub together and the petals of the flowers whisper and shed another cascade of scent. Standing in the dappled shade, her granddaughter snuggled into her side, Tomoyo reaches out with one hand to touch the closest tree trunk. It is gnarled and crusty, the bark cracked into a hundred hundred fragments, grooved and worn. Her fingers trace the rough surface, the knots and lumps, brush the spongy lichens clinging to the bark. There is something a little higher up the trunk, something that yields like rubber to her fingers, yields and then –

"Oh, don't touch that, Grandmother!"

Too late – her hand is already webbed with sticky strands. She smiles, rubbing her fingers and thumb together, but it only makes her stickier. "It's only gum," she says. "It will wash off."

They walk slowly on, among the plum and peach and cherry. The warbler is still calling, but even closer at hand are the chirrups and whistles of a flock of white eyes, feeding on insects in the trees. Every so often, there is a little whirr of wings as a bird darts from one tree to the next. It is a beautiful grove, Tomoyo thinks, beautiful and rich with life and sound and scent. She is grateful that the plum and the peach are so sweet; if only the cherry had a stronger fragrance too. She misses the sight of the blossoms, misses seeing this grove a froth of pink and white and red in the spring, but at least she can still smell the peach and the plum. It is the cherry she misses entirely.

She can still see the look of distress on Sakura's face when she told her that her sight was failing. "I won't let that happen, Tomoyo-chan," she had said, her chin setting in stubborn determination. "The Cards and I will work something out." And then had come that lovely smile that dawned like the sun, driving the pinched, ill look from her face. "Everything will be all right."

_Everything will be all right._ The words ring clear in her head. Sakura is right, in the end. No magic can bring back what was lost, but there is still so much that gives her joy. Her arm tightens on her granddaughter, and a white eye bursts into sudden song.

The breeze blows about her, like soft hands on her forehead. Her granddaughter's arm loosens, and the child moves away half a step, reaching for something. Tomoyo feels the loss of the warm little body and almost checks her, almost – but stops herself and lets her hand fall from the child's shoulder. She is practiced at letting others go.

Practiced, yes, but not perfect, she thinks, and a picture of green eyes and a face transfigured by a radiant smile slides into her mind. She feels the familiar old ache beneath her breastbone, and lifts a hand to her chest.

Suddenly, her granddaughter is there again, pressing something into her hand. "Feel it, Grandmother," she says, eagerly. "Feel it, and smell it!"

It is light, almost insubstantial, but it is there, tickling her palm. Gently, she touches it with one finger, feels the petals thinner than tracing paper, silky smooth and lightly veined. Odd that she cannot smell it, even when it is this close.

And then she knows. She raises it to her face, inhales deeply. Such a light scent, so faint that it is almost illusory. There is a burning at the backs of her eyes, and she turns, lifts her face to the sky and the warmth of the sunshine filtering through the cloud of blossoms overhead. From the house, she hears the sound of her grandson calling for his sister to join him for a game of tennis.

"Thank you," she says. "Go play with him." The girl hesitates, and she gives her a playful push. "Off you go."

The child throws her arms around her, squeezing tight, and then turns and dashes off, feet thudding on the ground, calling to her brother. Tomoyo listens to her go, hears the children's voices, hears their laughter. They go indoors to change – a door closes with a bang – and the sound of their voices is shut off.

She is alone, out in the garden. The sweet plum scent enfolds her, and the warbler pours its heart out in song. She lifts the cherry blossom to her face for another deep breath of the faint almond-like fragrance, then opens her hand, letting the breeze lightly pluck the flower from her palm and bear it away on the warm spring air.

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The sole criterion for this piece was that it was to be written from the point of view of a character who lost their sight a long time ago, and is now listening to sounds and dreaming up scenes. This turned out to be harder than I'd expected, as it turns out my descriptive passages are largely visual, but it was a very worthwhile exercise! I hope it has been a success!


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